Lying in Wait
by SlytherinMalfoySnape
Summary: Lincoln would never be able to prove it, but he lived with Michael long enough to know. After every single beating he doled out to his brother, Michael would somehow find a way to let him see the fading bruises...BDSM, kink.


**Lying in Wait**

**Summary: **_Lincoln would never be able to prove it, but he lived with Michael long enough to know. After every single beating he doled out to his brother, Michael would somehow find a way to let him see the fading bruises going through the kaleidoscopic spectrum of healing colors…_BDSM, kinkish. Companion to 'Sinful Strokes'.

* * *

You don't make something beautiful and then try to hide it. You want to show it to the whole world. Lincoln would be a complete liar if he didn't admit that he tried to sneak peeks at his handiwork. Everyone thought that his baby brother was the last person you'd name as an exhibitionist. Who? Shy, submissive Michael? No way. 

They were wrong.

Lincoln would never be able to prove it, but he lived with Michael long enough to know. After every single beating he doled out to his brother, Michael would somehow find a way to let him see the fading bruises going through the kaleidoscopic spectrum of healing colors, reds, purples, blues, yellows and greens. The large splotches receding back into flawless skin. See what he'd done.

At first Lincoln told himself that he really wasn't looking. He was only curious and concerned about seriously injuring his brother. He wouldn't do such a thing like stare at his baby brother's ass…would he? Lincoln felt dirty for even thinking such a thought about Michael. His innocent little brother. But after one too many 'accidents', Lincoln had gotten suspicious. That is, the slip of the towel. Opening the unlocked bathroom door to see Michael, wet, still hurting and very naked. A faint wince when sitting down for dinner. Him wearing his flimsy boxers around the house. Lying naked on his bed doing his homework. Lincoln began to wonder about his not-so-innocent brother. Michael always seemed to found a way to show Lincoln his masterpiece. Even when Lincoln convinced himself he was crazy and stayed away from the house for a week after the only time he'd ever sliced Michael open with his belt, he came home to find his brother curled up on the couch in _his_ underwear. Lincoln could see the lines of the individual raspberry and blackberry stripes on Michael's alabaster skin. He could curse his brother, a teenager with the skin of a baby. Delicate and soft, the perfect canvas. The canvas that had a kind of memory of its own, Lincoln's imprints all over it. The cut had healed nicely, but the bruising in the area was still prominent. Its deliciously raw, painful look made Lincoln's heart lurch in fear and excitement. His hand hovered over the warm tissue, the forbidden flesh of Michael's thigh. He wanted to touch the puffy bruise poking out of Michael's boxers only to feel something else poking from his own.

That scar he saw again a few weeks later when Michael had fallen asleep on his bed, face first into some textbook. Lincoln had never meant for it to happen and he intensely regretted it when it flashed into his mind. Lincoln, who had steely resolved to not regret disciplining Michael because it was necessary, felt a wave of remorse. Similar to when he yelled at LJ. He awkwardly tried to apologize once and Michael was more eager to put the topic at rest than he was. Lincoln remembered the leather. The distinct, funny sound it made when it literally tore into Michael's ass. His brother had clenched his fists into Lincoln's shirt, his entire body stiffening up. Lincoln was sure that his brother would wail or something because the blood was running down his thigh and staining the bottom of Lincoln's jeans. But he didn't. He made a small sound like between a sniff and a gasp and tensed for another hit that never came. Lincoln was tempted to wipe his belt over that cut, smear the fresh blood and snap it deeper still into the already bruised area but he was worried that Michael would be too forgiving. Because Michael would let it happen again and again, even when he shouldn't and it was way past his pain threshold. Lincoln wasn't a superstitious man but he wasn't going to play with fate and his brother was never a toy in his eyes. Still, after seeing the faint, whitish scar, Lincoln never drew blood again. It was barely visible, but every time he saw it, or he thought he saw it, he could feel his heart beat quickly like he wanted to or was scared he'd want to make Michael's body clamp onto him again.

The older brother wasn't sure if his younger brother was just finding a way to guilt him or to manipulate him. Perhaps Michael thought that if he showed Lincoln just how bad it was, he wouldn't beat him so hard next time? Lincoln dismissed that thought from his mind when Michael asked for a beating the other time when he did something wrong. He wasn't trying to avoid a beating. He was trying to get one because he felt bad about what he did. As much as Lincoln relied on whipping Michael to exorcise his teenage demons, Michael had come to rely on Lincoln to ritually cleanse him from his guilt. Lincoln understood that he couldn't ever break Michael because he already came to him broken and he wanted, believed that Lincoln could put him back together again. Lincoln could be the hero and Michael, the martyr.

It was a secret ritual of sorts for the brother, like a confessional. Later, Lincoln didn't have to tell Michael to strip and lay across his lap because he already knew what to do. It became Michael-speak for submission and readiness. At first it made them uncomfortable but both grew to relish the, cathartic feelings brought on by the brief bodily contact. The rules were in place and Michael knew the consequences of his actions. Lincoln was glad that his younger brother had the greater intellect because he could never come up with that many complex speeches about what you should and shouldn't do. Michael already knew it and when he inevitably committed a fault, Lincoln would be the one to whip him back into shape. Lincoln was sure, absolutely sure, that by now Michael was really old enough to know what he'd done wrong and he didn't really need a beating. But Michael would look at him with his sorrowful, moist eyes and Lincoln would not deny him his penance.

Michael could stop it at anytime. Really he could. When it seemed like Michael couldn't bear a stroke more, his back arching and legs kicking involuntarily, Lincoln would stop. He would give his brother the chance to get away from him, to stand up and accuse his older brother of being a horrible abuser. But Michael only lay there unquestioningly, his sweaty skin burning from the blows, his breath slowing down to match Lincoln's and murmuring a barely audible apology. He would readjust himself so his brother could continue because he trusted Lincoln implicitly. That time when he knew he was in for the beating of his life, Michael rarely asked for anything at all but he quietly requested that Lincoln tie his hands so he wouldn't have to take the penalty strike for reaching back. At Lincoln's shocked look, he tied himself up with Lincoln's hanky. He wasn't going to fight Lincoln but he fought his own formidable reflexes and his older brother could pay him that much. He never once begged, pleaded, traded promises like Lincoln had heard with other people's brothers, children, nephews. Lincoln was glad that he never had to wrestle Michael and forcibly exact his punishment. It would have been too much. It would have made him feel like he'd violated the sanctity of their bond, like he was violating _Michael _somehow. It wasn't like that. Michael was a willing, sometimes too willing participant.

Lincoln hated to see his brother hurt but he loved it when he did it because it was the only time Lincoln glimpses past his calm façade. The older brother was the only one who could see how vulnerable Michael really was, he could make Michael need him in a way that no one had ever asked of him. Not Veronica. Not LJ. They didn't need him like Michael did. When he disciplined his brother, they were both spellbound by their unique universe. They are in a world of their own, governed by their own justice system and speaking in their language of love.

Lincoln still isn't sure why Michael lets him see his bruises. He knows that his brother would never ever mention them to anyone because its just the way Michael is, let alone show them to anyone. When he saw a flash of his most recent attentions, he admired the way the rainbow healing welts gracefully adorned the gentle curves of Michael's lower body. They contrast against the ever-pale skin and complemented the gothic tattoo on his brother's back. He doesn't need to linger to appreciate the view; Michael's tactful perceptiveness is and has nearly always been astounding. Michael casually wraps the light coverlet back over his marks to acknowledge Lincoln's fleeting grin.

Michael is grateful for his brother's guidance and many sacrifices for him. He isn't that arrogant to presume that he's the only one that has made sacrifices. Lincoln was always the one to chase his childhood fears away; he was always the one who made him feel like he was worth it. He made him feel secure in his eternal place as little brother. He still goes to Lincoln to assuage his guilt because Lincoln is the one he trusts, his protector. He can lay himself bare in front of his brother, fully trusting that Lincoln will take care of him. He doesn't tell Lincoln, but he proudly shows his battle wounds to him because its his way of satisfying Lincoln's wants the only way he knows how. He silently gives his thanks and his blessing, lying in wait on the hammock.


End file.
